Open Fire

by Amber Lough

  Clearly, Lermontov hadn’t spent any time in an arms factory. After working in the grenade filling room for the last five months, I’d seen enough female strength and sacrifice to move mountains. One time, a woman threw herself at another, pushing her away just as a crate fell off a shelf. She was crushed, but she’d saved her friend.

  “Sir,” I said, hoping no one would hear any excitement in my voice. “I think it’s a brilliant idea. For those women who have been sneaking into the fight disguised as men, it will save them a haircut.”

  When they chuckled, I forced myself to join them, though my laugh was as real as the actress’s waistline.

  The next course was brought in and my mind drifted, dwelling on Sergeant Bochkareva. How had a woman cornered the Minister of War and gotten him to agree to something no one had ever done before? Except the mythical Amazons, no one had raised an all-woman army to fight in battle. Even Saint Olga had used men to do her dirty work.

  All was well at the table, and then the General had to ruin the evening entirely. Once the dessert dishes had been cleared, he asked for a round of vodka to be brought to the table. Then, as we all lifted our glasses, he made a toast.

  “To our heroes soon to return to the front.” Then he pointed his glass at Maxim and the two shared the darkest of looks. He threw back the glass and drank it all in one gulp, as did everyone around me. I didn’t move.

  “Maxim?” I asked.

  He looked away quickly. Too quickly.

  “You didn’t tell her yet? You’ve had two weeks!” The General shook his head. “He’s been recalled to the front, my dear. Maxim must report in at the end of the week.”

  He hadn’t told me. It was a punch to the gut. I almost dropped the shot glass.

  Everyone was staring at me. If I didn’t drink to the toast, I’d be wishing my brother—and all soldiers—misfortune. If I did drink, I’d be agreeing to my brother leaving me again.

  I put the glass to my lips. The vodka burned all the way down.

  —

  On the way out, I asked Elena Stefanovna if I could take a look at her book collection. Thrilled, she brought me from room to room, but to my frustration, she avoided the German room. After she explained to me how Mark Twain was the American version of Leo Tolstoy—which I highly doubted because his books were only half as thick—I mentioned how before the war, I’d been studying foreign languages.

  “I’d forgotten about that. You were focused on French and English, am I right?” she asked with a light squeeze on my wrist. “Just like my Ilya.”

  “French and German, actually. For the chemistry concentration, we had to learn German, not English.”

  “Oh my. And do you remember any of it? Do you—do you have any friends in Germany?”

  “Of course not,” I laughed. “Do you mind if I take a look at your collection, though? German books are difficult to find now, you know, and I’ve heard you have the best collection in the city.”

  That did the trick. She happily ushered me into a dark-paneled room with two wide bookcases set beneath the tall windows. Altogether, they held perhaps forty books.

  She crossed her arms. “It’s not such a large collection, really. Mostly philosophy and fables.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a copy of Faust, would you?”

  There was a polite cough in the door behind us, and we both whirled around. Captain Lermontov stood in the doorway, a thin smile on his lips. “A lover of Goethe, are you?”

  “She hates old books like that,” Maxim said behind him. “Don’t you, Katya?”

  If I didn’t get this done with, I was going to run screaming from the house. “I’m not a little girl anymore,” I said to my brother, showing my teeth.

  “Well,” Elena Stefanovna said. She hurried to the bookcases and pulled out a leather-bound copy. “Here is it, dear.”

  I took the book and flipped through it as casually as I could. “Who was the better writer, do you think? Goethe or . . .” I racked my brain for another German writer. “Schiller?”

  “Schiller,” said Maxim. He’d pushed his way past the Captain, who continued to lean against the door frame.

  “Do you have any Schiller, Elena Stefanovna?” I asked sweetly.

  While she searched the bookcases with Maxim, I pulled a slip of paper from between the pages and stuck it up my sleeve. Then I caught Lermontov’s eye and snapped the book shut. “What about you, Captain?”

  “I prefer Goethe, myself. He was quite the educator. May I?” He reached out, and I handed him the book.

  I had accomplished what I’d come here to do, and suddenly the stress of the evening caught up with me. Stifling a yawn, I turned to Maxim.

  “Maybe you’re right. German literature is putting me to sleep.”

  He chuckled. He must have thought I’d forgiven him for not telling me about his recall. “You haven’t even read any of it.”

  “It is rather late for a factory worker,” the Captain said. “She must have to wake early.”

  He shepherded me out of the room, followed by Maxim and Elena Stefanovna. While we retrieved our coats, I saw the Captain flipping the pages of the book. It was done.

  “Maxim Viktorovich, you take care when you get back to the front,” Elena Stefanovna said. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him on the cheeks. “Come back safe.”

  My hand was hard as concrete in the crook of Maxim’s arm as we left the General’s house. We were only a step apart, but it felt like an entire field of barbed wire had been strung up between us.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked as soon as we rounded the corner.

  “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to.”

  “What were you going to do? Wait until you were packed up ready to go? And I would see you in uniform again and cry, ‘Oh, Maxim! My heroic brother!’ ”

  He yanked his arm away from mine.

  Blood boiled in my veins, and I couldn’t cool it down. I didn’t want to. Months of taking care of him, of saving up to pay off his mistakes, of haggling for real tea so he’d have something to drink that wouldn’t rot his liver—and he still treated me like a child. A child who couldn’t handle difficult news.

  “I wrote to Papa.” His voice was tight, like he was forcing it through a narrowing pipe. “I said you needed me here, and that I wasn’t ready to go back. I even brought up how if I left, it would be like Mama abandoning us, all over again. Remember how hard it was? But he didn’t do a damn thing to help. And when I went to General Yudenich, he showed me the stack of Ilya’s letters. Ilya!” His lips trembled. “He threw my best friend’s letters in my face, going on and on about how his son had given everything for Russia and I was nothing but a wet chicken. All his talk about my bravery at dinner tonight, that was for you. When it was just him and me, he was a cold bastard.”

  “You know how they idolized Ilya,” I said quietly. He seemed not to hear.

  “I didn’t tell you because I was hoping for something else. Even a posting here in Petrograd. Anything but to go back there.” He shivered.

  I should have taken his hand in mine, but both of us were carrying tight fists, our knuckles locked in worry and frustration. We marched home this way, swinging our fists like the soldiers we weren’t.

  “Olga was married to Prince Igor of Kiev, who collected tribute from his people along the river.”

  “What’s a tribute?”

  “Money for keeping them safe. One year, he went to collect a very high tribute from Prince Mal. When Igor went back and asked for more, Mal had him killed.”

  “How?”

  “How did they kill him?”

  “Yes. With swords? With arrows? Did they decapitate him?”

  “How do you—I’m going to talk with your brother.”

  4

  April 18, 1917

  “Pavlova!” The shrill cry of my name carried over the metallic clanging of grenade trays being set onto the worktables. I stilled, my emptied scoop resting on the finger-wide rim
of the grenade’s cavity. As cleanly as I could, I set the scoop down and turned to face the forewoman. The other girls on the line continued working, not wanting to miss their quotas.

  Natalya Ivanovna filled the doorway with her hands on her hips. Her usual gray kerchief was replaced with a wool one with large pink roses, but her frown was the same weary line as always. Behind her stood three men, one with a pair of wire glasses on his nose, and the others with clipboards. I’d never seen them before.

  “Yes, Natasha Ivanovna?” I asked.

  She cocked her head at the men behind her. “You’re to come with us.”

  “Is something wrong?” She didn’t look upset with me in particular, but something was definitely stirring up her skirt.

  “Other than the war?” she snapped. Then, with a resigned sigh, she pinched the bridge of her nose. “We have a new grenade model to discuss.” With that, she turned and waited for the men to part, allowing her through. They followed behind her, none of them giving me a second glance.

  I wiped my hands on a cloth and followed, cursing the fact that I wouldn’t make quota today, which meant my pay would be docked. Natasha Ivanovna took the men into the education room, and I entered to find all the other line leaders already present. The other girls and women stood behind waist-high tables, shoulder to shoulder, not a one of them looking the least bit pleased at being taken from their lines either. Masha stood in the middle of the room with her hand covering the table space beside her. When she saw me, she waved me over, ignoring the mumbling from another woman who’d wanted the space.

  “Any ideas?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

  “A new model?” I whispered with a shrug.

  Natasha Ivanovna and the three men came to stand at the front of the room, facing us. She motioned to one of the younger girls to shut the door, and then the man in the glasses cleared his throat.

  “My name is Pyotr Pavlovich Guchkov,” he began, with more enthusiasm than I’d expected from a man who looked like he hadn’t slept since the war began. “I’m an engineer at the university. I know some of you from the smelting room.” He nodded at a group of women along the wall, all metalworkers. “We brought you in here today to discuss the next stage of the M1914 grenade. The plans are finally finished, thanks to these men from the chemistry department.”

  Pyotr Pavlovich motioned to the back of the room, and I turned to see a boy standing behind a giant projector. “Cut the lights,” Pyotr Pavlovich said. Then he and the others parted to clear space on the newly whitewashed wall. The boy started the projector, and a diagram of the M1914 lit up the darkness.

  “This is the current model you all know and love.”

  Masha snickered beside me, and I bumped my shoulder into hers.

  Pyotr Pavlovich’s dry voice carried across the darkened room. “It works well, but we have been ordered to make a more effective weapon. After months of research, and with some help from the British, we are ready to begin making the newer model. It is called the M1917G. You may wonder what the G stands for.” He paused for dramatic effect, and it worked. No one made a peep. “It is what changes everything: gas.”

  A low murmur snaked through the rows of women.

  “Chloropicrin,” Natasha Ivanovna explained in a sharp tone, shutting down the whispers and comments. “The grenade will release chloropicrin gas.”

  “Precisely,” said Pyotr Pavlovich. “It does not explode like a TNT grenade, but it can be more effective. As far as it concerns you in the factory, it shall be treated with the same care as the TNT. It will not explode, it will not tint you yellow, but if you are not careful, it will kill you and those around you.” This particular news was for me, for my line. “The majority of you will see no change in your work. As you can see, the grenade’s body is nearly the same.”

  One of the other men motioned to Pyotr Pavlovich, and the boy in the back clicked the projector, displaying the chemical components of the gas.

  Natasha Ivanovna pulled open the door. “Those of you not in the explosives line may return to your work. We will begin training shortly.” Most of the women filed out, including Masha, leaving just a few of us behind.

  One of the chemists pointed at the projected information. “As you can see, this will be far less dangerous for you than what you’re currently filling the canisters with. With care, you will find it much more pleasant to work with.”

  I wanted to laugh, but there was no one to share it with now that Masha was gone. Everyone else was hard-faced, studying the information on the wall.

  A woman raised her hand. “When will we start?”

  “Tomorrow,” the chemist said. “The gas will arrive this afternoon. Pyotr Pavlovich will be here after the shift ends to assist any of you if you have questions. And if you wish, he can show you what you must do. If you cannot stay late, I will instruct you tomorrow.”

  No one asked why we were upgrading from basic explosives to gas-filled weapons. After nearly three years of war, Russia had yet to bring the Germans and Austrians to their knees. Meanwhile our own soldiers had been gassed. The casualties of this technology arrived weekly on the trains from the front, filling hospitals to the brim, reminding us how badly we were outmatched.

  I studied the image of the grenade and the technical details, trying to imprint it into my brain. I wasn’t going to wait until tomorrow to learn how to make this new horror.

  —

  The Kazan Cathedral was not Petrograd’s largest or most opulent cathedral, but it did look the most Roman. Or so my babushka told me. The last time I’d come here had been with her. After my mother left, she had taken me to all the cathedrals and larger churches in the city. Anywhere someone noble had been born. She said it was to teach me to honor Russia’s past, but I was pretty sure she had a secret list of every Saint Georgi icon in the city because there seemed to be one everywhere we went. She would always go straight to it, sketch the sign of the cross and give it a kiss. Then, she’d covertly pull out a scrap of paper and tick something off with a pencil stub.

  The Kazan Cathedral’s two colonnades reached out from the green dome as if embracing the park and fountain in front. At this time of night, when the sun was gone but still cast a subtle glow across the sky, the spaces between the columns were rich with shadow and silence. It was behind the seventh column on the northern side that I was to meet Sergei.

  A small group of men clustered at the end of the opposite colonnade, but they were preoccupied with a bottle of vodka and paid no attention to me.

  I stepped up into the shadows. My heart leapt to my throat, and its rapid beating only increased my awareness. I was not safe here in the near-dark. This was a terrible time to meet anyone, much less a Bolshevik. If only I’d been here on time, before sunset.

  Counting the columns, I trod quietly. The light here was soft, brushing the outside edge of the northernmost columns with filtered gold—strangely peaceful despite the deep shadows.

  I heard a faint, sour chuckle and froze in place.

  “I’ve had to brush off two advances from would-be lovers.” Sergei’s voice came from the darkness before he stepped into the fading light.

  “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  He shrugged. “I was still here.”

  “I—here.” I handed him the note I’d found in the copy of Faust.

  “Thanks.” It disappeared somewhere in his jacket. “So why were you late? Extra shift at the capitalist war factory?”

  I frowned, choosing to ignore his jab. “It just took me a while to get out of there today.”

  He raised an eyebrow, a neat trick that I had never been able to manage. “Were you with your really tall friend?”

  “Masha. She’s not that tall. Just taller than I am.”

  “I like tall girls.”

  “Speaking of girls,” I said, “the army might be forming an all-women’s battalion.”

  “Women soldiers? Really?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. You told me the Bolsheviks be
lieve women should have equal rights. That we’re just as smart and capable as men.”

  “And you are. I’m just surprised the Provisional Government agrees with us. Did you hear about this at the party the other night?”

  I nodded as I scanned the area around us again, making sure we weren’t going to be accosted by anyone. “I don’t know if it will actually happen. It’s just an idea that’s been brought up. The army is having a problem with morale.”

  He grinned, looking absolutely cocky. “We’ve been passing out copies of Pravda to the soldiers at the front, because the best thing for Russia—and the revolution—is for the war to end. We need to turn our backs on the Germans and focus on ourselves.”

  I couldn’t agree. Commitment in a time of war had been bred into me alongside my nightly prayers. It was all I could do to tuck away the bit of guilt I felt around my work for the Bolsheviks, but that wasn’t abandoning the war or the causes that we were fighting for. I was sharing information with our own people. I wasn’t asking our men to leave their comrades in the midst of battle.

  “I don’t like war either, but we can’t wave a white flag and expect Germany to hand us back our borders with a smile and a barrel of beer.”

  “If only it could be so easy.” He seemed to be studying a stray lock of my hair. “You’ll see in time. Their plots won’t work, and in the end, Russia will be stronger. Now, before I go, I’ve brought this for you.” He reached into the other side of his jacket and pulled out an envelope, which he handed to me.

  It was smooth and cool in my hand, the edges sharp. I could easily picture the cash inside. “Thank you.”

  “If you can get more information about the women’s battalion, we would appreciate it.”

  “I’ll try. My brother leaves this week for the front.” The words were dry as chalk on my tongue. “Once he’s gone, I’ll have more freedom. You could meet me at my apartment on Wednesdays, when our housekeeper doesn’t come.”

  His eyes glinted in the lamplight. “To receive information?” he asked.